First, President Bush’s recent use of profanity at the G8 meeting
demonstrates that his down home approach is not limited to White House BBQ’s and
Well, on to an American who really does deserve our respect, Johnny Cash.
His posthumous album, American V: A Hundred Highways was released a few weeks ago, and one of the significant aspects of this album, is that it contains the last song, yes, the last song that Mr. Cash ever wrote, called Like The 309. There obviously have been many reviews of this album posted on the internet, and most of them were written with care and solemnity, so really, I can’t add much to the accolades. Needless to say, the album is superb, and has an air of quiet resignation to it, as the Man in Black prepared to meet his maker, the album being recorded months before his passing. The depth of Mr. Cash’s humanity pervades the entire recording, and should be listened to by everyone in
On to an item that was sent to me by WHF3 on the state of affairs for independent record stores. http://www.nytimes.com/2006/07/16/fashion/sundaystyles/16store.html
Apparently opening a record store in
http://www.uttertrash.net/recordstores1.htm
and Fabulous jackpot in
Good record stores are indeed places to hang out and gather rock snob data. They should provide: 1) inexpensive vinyl, and lots of it, 2) new CD’s that aren’t priced $20 (unless its a Japanese import of an out of print Thin Lizzy album), 3) Knowledgeable staff (without being a too much of a rock snob about it-really, c’mon, you are just working at a record store, right?), 4) kool stuff like incense, posters, t-shirts, buttons, etc., 5) a good selection of used Cd’s. Its really that simple.
Clearly, downloading has changed the rules of music. Listening to the Long Player on vinyl, and attempting to dissect every track is (regrettably) over, for a vast majority of the population. We rush from the car to the work, grab a snippet of a tune on the computer, play an album in the background as we make dinner, and maybe download a song before bedtime. Things have escalated, and it seems as if in this accelerated lifestyle of the 21st century, hitting the bong and vegging in the bean bag chair for 4 hours and listening to Blonde on Blonde is a thing of the past for many people. Unfortunately. I recently picked up Miles Davis’ Complete Jack Johnson Sessions, 5 cd’s, and I am trying to find time to listen to it. Not really an album for the ride home from work during rush hour traffic. So far, listening to it at the computer, it is a critical listen for anyone who digs Miles' 70's fusion.
Heard that a friend is having some medical problems. Well, hopefully CH’s injuries are not life threatening, so I hope for the best for him.
Also just finished Lois the Witch
by Elizabeth Gaskell.
This story is in the Penguin Classics edition of her Gothic short stories, which are superb. This story takes the historical facts of the Salem Witch trials and fleshes out the madness with the story of a young woman who is accused of witchcraft. The personal politics and agendas of the family she is attached to are brought to light and with masterful characterizations, she provides insights into the delusional needs of the Puritans.
I quote this passage at length due to the horrific atmosphere it creates:
Isolated from all previous connections, hearing no word from England, living in the heavy, monotonous routine of a family with one man for head, and this man esteemed a hero by most of those around him, simply because he was the only man in the family - these facts alone would have formed strong presumptions that most girls would have yielded to the offers of such a one. But, besides this, there was much to tell upon the imagination in those days, in that place and time. It was prevalently believed that there were manifestations of spiritual influence - of the direct influence both of good and bad spirits - constantly to be perceived in the course of men's lives. Lots were drawn, as guidance from the Lord; the Bible was opened, and the leaves allowed to fall apart; and the first text the eye fell upon was supposed to be appointed from above as a direction. Sounds were heard that could not be accounted for; they were made by the evil spirits not yet banished from the desert-places of which they had so long held possession. Sights, inexplicable and mysterious, were dimly seen - Satan, in some shape, seeking whom he might devour. And, at the beginning of the long winter season, such whispered tales, such old temptations and hauntings, and devilish terrors, were supposed to be peculiarly rife. Salem was, as it were, snowed up, and left to prey upon itself The long, dark evenings; the dimly-lighted rooms; the creaking passages, where heterogeneous articles were piled away, out of the reach of the keen-piercing frost, and where occasionally, in the dead of night, a sound was heard, as of some heavy falling body, when, next morning, everything appeared to be in its right place (so accustomed are we to measure noises by comparison with themselves, and not with the absolute stillness of the night-season); the white mist, coming nearer and nearer to the windows every evening in strange shapes, like phantoms - all these, and many other circumstances: such as the distant fall of mighty trees in the mysterious forests girdling them round; the faint whoop and cry of some Indian seeking his camp, and unwittingly nearer to the white man's settlement than either he or they would have liked, could they have chosen; the hungry yells of the wild beasts approaching the cattle-pens - these were the things which made that winter life in Salem, in the memorable time of 1691-2, seem strange, and haunted, and terrific to many; peculiarly weird and awful to the English girl, in her first year's sojourn in America.
Well that makes America sound like a lovely place, doesn't it?
No comments:
Post a Comment